


A Progressional Descent

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's descent to death takes not one, but two other souls with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Progressional Descent

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first MorMor fic and probably my last. I don't write much anymore but this just ate at me until I had to finish it and so I did. Please enjoy, if you have and questions, comments, etc feel free to leave them, I love to hear thoughts, suggestions, anything.

Only one in the world.  
  
He hates the phrase, down to the very last stroke of the keys, or very last click of the pen. Only one it makes him unique, makes him special and he knows it, how to be special, how to feel it. But in the entire world? Surely there is another man somewhere like him, constantly bored, perpetually hungry for a game, some other man in the world with the same problem-this final problem.  
  
And yet....  
  
Ordinary, so ordinary, everything extraordinary grows ordinary-boring in one facade or another. Life’s one big uncomplicated card game and he counts cards. What’s a puzzle if he knows that the next card will give him blackjack and raise his funds? Where’s the excitement when he can calculate the every move of every ant that calls themselves a person beneath his feet? No, no life’s one big deck of cards to him, and each card the same, day in day out-a little crinkle in the King but he’s still the same shape, the same face, how so incredibly predictable, so incredibly dull.  
  
Even the most fascinating faucet of domesticity has lost it’s luster.  
  
Grown sentimental, the big lofty tiger, agile in his murderous ways and soft in his fur. A man like a wild animal has become worn down by domesticity, and grown rather attached to him. He’d taken the creature under his wing for his skill and shine, the way his coat seem to distract him long enough to think that perhaps the world isn’t such a predictable, number filled mistake like he’d found. He found himself a fond likeness to the pitiful animal, nearly without moral, eyes a brilliant yellow and shot a mistake to let loose on the street. His tiger, the dangerous man and all his vice-filled mannerisms made things quite interesting for quite some time.  
  
But even that grows old and tiresome. A tiger becomes a cat if kept too long, purring and soft, the edge to it’s bite fading away until it bites no longer. Cats aren’t quite as interesting, ordinary people have cats, and he’s not ordinary, no no no-he’s extraordinary, the only one in the world. Ordinary is mundane, cats are ordinary, tigers-mundane. He’s a business man with exceptional talents and a sniper whose talents-will extraordinary-can be done without. There is no need for a tiger who can no longer bite, who can no longer claw. He does not need a purring cat, he does not need a sniper.  
  
How devastating it must be, to find a piece of gold is copper, the luster worn off to stain skin green. How irrevocably grotesque it must feel to find that paint wears down to chip. He needs not a piece of fallacy, but a piece of truth, a thing to hold his interest so it does not wane. Wandering eyes often lead to devastating truths-for those with sentimental attachment. But he’s got none, so wandering he goes, for things that aren’t so dull-nothing ordinary, he can’t possibly be the only one in the world like this. Statistically there is one other. Another one like him. He’ll find him. A thrill of a chase. Oh god how he needs it.  
  
And he finds it, oh how he does, another man, another “only one in the world” and he becomes his number one fan. Obsessive over him, he can see it, in this detectives eyes that he too-the final problem, the final problem, it excites him to where he can no longer stay away, and so the game begins, the thrilling game, a dangerous game, a shiny, luster-filled game for him and his new toy, better than a tiger, a man like him. Obsession never looked so delicious in the form of murder and puzzle, cops and robbers on a global scale-an entire nation at risk and he fell head over heels in love with it-head over heels in love with Sherlock, this game, this macabre game. There isn’t a thing that can satisfy him more than this, the gratifying taste of knowledge and game.  
  
His tiger, that dull, dull tiger is forgotten, because there isn’t anything extraordinary about him anymore, no bite to his purr, declawed and dethroned. He can’t remove the creature from his right hand, far too many secrets, far too many pleasures this man knows. Boring having a thorn in the side, attached, sentimental-a chokehold on him, the tigers paws declawed and teeth removed. How ordinary is sentiment? How ordinary is this tiger now that it’s not wild? House cats. He’s a house cat.  
  
His prize is perfect, this other man, and he entangles himself with that, despite the vicious man and his warnings. Safe is boring, safe is dull, safe is ordinary-clever is dangerous, numbers are puzzles, his tiger is not a puzzle anymore, his tiger is predictable, every argument predictable to the very last drop of whiskey he pours down the sink in an attempt to be different. He’s figured the man out, to his childhood and back, to the education he uses to become something interesting. The smarter he gets the dumber he is, nothing is quite like they way he was when he first stole him from the streets. How incredibly disappointing it seems, the man with the brains can’t entertain him any longer and it seems that, at the same time his tiger loses out, so does his new toy, that detective can’t seem to figure out the final problem and it all goes to hell.  
  
He is the only one in the world, it’s evident by the way his toy meets him, standing out on the roof top. Disappointed, words for them both, he’s disappointed in how ordinary the world is, how ordinary Sherlock is, ordinary Sebastian is. The only one in the world, he’s hated that name and hates it more now, spits it at the ground. There isn’t a thing left in this life for him. Perhaps somewhere else they’ll meet again, with answers. He’s never been closer to answers than he is now. He needs answers, he needs to finish it, there is nothing left but to be special, to be the only one who knows that answer. The only one in the world.  
  
In the end it’s the ordinary that consumes him, drives him past madness to darkness. In the end it’s the sentimental tiger that kills him, the ordinary consulting detective that pulls the trigger, the mundane rooftop the final resting stage for his final act. In the end he succumbs to the ordinary, from extraordinary heights the detective falls, ordinary endings for ordinary people.  
  
And sentimental ones for the sentimental.  
  



End file.
